


Louisville to Lemonade

by HeadCannon



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Pezberry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadCannon/pseuds/HeadCannon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Santana can’t help that she comes across as judgmental. Truth is, she wouldn’t come across as judgmental if other people didn’t suck at first impressions and come across as backwoods yokels who are betrothed to their first cousins (hypothetically).</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana can’t help that she comes across as judgmental. Truth is, she wouldn’t come across as judgmental if other people didn’t suck at first impressions and come across as backwoods yokels who are betrothed to their first cousins (hypothetically).

So far, the only thing in the entire state of Kentucky that Santana likes is her dorm room. There’s air conditioning, a bed, music that’s not that fucking country-bumpkin crap everyone seems to listen to and, when she shuts the door, people leave her the fuck alone.

Everyone keeps telling her that college is about new experiences and new faces. She likes the old faces she knows just fine, thank you very much and how about you go spread your cheer in someone else’s personal space?

She’s not anti-social or anything like that. She talks to people. So what if the only conversations that last more than three and a half minutes are with people whose voices don’t twang when they talk?

Santana’s got friends. She doesn’t need new ones.

And anyway, she really does hate the way people talk here like they all fell off some turnip truck on the way to a hoe-down and are just aching for some moonshine. Or, like, a banjo duel.

Santana can’t help that she comes across as judgmental. Truth is, she wouldn’t come across as judgmental if other people didn’t suck at first impressions and come across as backwoods yokels who are betrothed to their first cousins (hypothetically).

Her computer makes a familiar sound and she’s sitting at her desk in an instant.

“God, Britts. I finally figured out why I got all that financial aid.” She doesn’t even let her best friend get a word out before she launches in. Brittany just smiles at her through the Skype screen. “This place is so lame that they have to pay people to come here. For real.”

Brittany’s smile drops into a little pout and she sighs. “I’m sorry you hate it.”

It takes Santana a minute to realize that she kind of just crapped on the one good idea Brittany thought she’d had. Like, ever. “It’s not that I hate it. It’s just, you know, the people and … hey, did I tell you what my R.A. said?”

The blonde nods and recites: “You’re allowed to have overnight guests in your room but not for a period of more than three days. And then you said that no one would be interested in visiting because the entire town smells like cooked pig.”

“That’s not what I said.” Santana shakes her head as she holds up a hand and corrects her friend. “I said no one but Quinn … “

Brittany smiles widely and interrupts her friend. “Oh! I talked to Quinn and her English teacher … professor … is actually from England! He speaks English fluently and everything. I’m supposed to Skype with her in ten minutes, and Mike after that and then, after that, I promised Tina I’d tell her everything Mike said.”

Santana tries not let her disappointment show. “Ten whole minutes, huh? Alright, well, tell me how your day was, then. Start with how much you’ve missed me.”

The call ends eight minutes later because Brittany needs to get ready for her call with Quinn. How someone gets ready for a Skype call is beyond Santana, but she got her few minutes of time with someone who, unlike her current peers, not only looks good in cut-off shorts, but also doesn’t seem to want to get her on a fake bull at a bar that lets in college freshman but doesn’t serve them booze. How is that even okay?

A ding echoes in the quiet of Santana’s room.

She fights the smile that somehow spreads across her face as she reads the name and hits the “accept video call” button.

“Rachel.”

“Good evening, Santana! I have wonderful news to share!” The little brunette is grinning so widely that Santana is sure she’s about to split apart from the mouth out.

“I’m doing alright. Thanks for asking, gelfling.” She rolls her eyes and gives Rachel a look of boredom that she’s proud to have perfected over the years.

Rachel’s smile drops and her eyes widen. “Oh, you’re right. That was terribly rude of me.” She takes a deep breath and then nods at Santana, as though the other girl might understand her non-verbal cues.

Oddly, though, she does. Santana gets that the other girl’s actions signify that Rachel is waiting for her to re-start the conversation and she sighs. “It’s fine. It’s not possible for me to have news because nothing happens here.”

“What about the party you went to?”

Santana just shrugs. “Boys, beer bongs and country music.” She grimaces. “You know how I feel about all of those things. If I ever tell you that I’ve had beer out of a hat with straws or had someone pour beer down my throat, send help. Actually, no. If I’ve reached that point, you have my permission to take a hit out on me. Just end it.”

Rachel gives her that cute giggle that Santana is sure means “Oh, Santana, you’re so funny.” And Santana is reminded that they are still kind of new friends and aren’t really perfectly in sync yet. Because, seriously, Santana doesn’t joke about drinking. Either you drink the hard stuff or you stick with water.

And you don’t put fuckin’ umbrellas in it, either.

“So, what’s your big news, little person?”

The other girl just smiles and shakes her head. “We’re going to talk about you first.”

“What, don’t want to be the opening act after all?” Santana smirks, rests her head on her hand and looks fondly at her friend.

“Funny. Ha and ha.” Rachel rolls her eyes and flips her hair over her shoulder. “But no, I’m a headliner.”

Santana laughs at that because, not only was she expecting it, but because she knows (as does Rachel) that it’s true. “Right, so hey, wanna hear what my R.A. said?”

“About having someone stay over for more than three days?”

“Jesus.” Santana rolls her eyes. “Do you listen to everything I say?”

Rachel just stares at her and then very honestly says, “Yes.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that because, shit, she didn’t see that coming. “Oh.”

Rachel’s smile doesn’t falter. “So, what did she say?”

“Huh?” Santana’s brain hasn’t quite come back online yet.

There’s that giggle again and then the smaller brunette speaks slowly and clearly, “Your R.A. …”

“Oh!” Santana’s eyes light up as she remembers what she was going to say. “Listen to this, you better be sitting down for this - are you? I can’t tell because you’re like two feet tall standing _and_ sitting - anyway, this is the kind of crap I deal with on a daily basis …” and she starts telling Rachel about the invitation (command) to attend some mixer for all of the new residents in her building. “… and then she says, are you ready for this shit? She actually says,” Santana’s voice goes nasally and she affects a Southern drawl, “I think someone forgot that she lives in CAN-tucky and not CAN’T-tucky.”

Santana chuckles when she hears Rachel’s muffled giggle. “Oh, no, that’s … that’s bad.”

“Rachel,” the other girl says soberly, “I think you’re finally starting to understand the level of lameness that I constantly have to put up with.”

Santana watches Rachel laugh before becoming serious, tilting her head and squinting at what she assumes is her image on the other girl’s computer. “So, why didn’t you want to go? Real answer, not the crude, Santana Lopez prepared answer.”

Rachel gets a dirty look for that one. They haven’t been friends long enough for her to assume she knows Santana that well. What, a few Skype sessions, some late night instant messaging on Facebook, a handful (if a few hundred constitutes a handful - maybe a large handful) of texts and she’s an open book? Please.

“Fuck you, Berry.” Santana doesn’t say anything else. She just pouts at Rachel.

Rachel’s chair squeaks as she leans back and crosses her arms in front of her. “That was uncalled for. I’m just trying to be your friend and help you. You aren’t even trying to be happy there.”

“Well not everyone gets everything they wanted, like some people. It’s easy to be happy when you don’t have to wait to get what you want.”

The smaller girl clenches her jaw and looks directly into the camera. “Nothing was handed to me, Santana. I worked very hard and made sacrifices to be where I am. I can’t help it that you didn’t plan as well as I did and I think it’s very unfair of you to take it out on me when all I’m trying to do is to help you make lemonade.”

Santana frowns. “I don’t need any fucking lemonade, Gizmo. I need to be somewhere that isn’t reminiscent of the Clampets pre-move to Beverly Hills.” She shakes her head and looks away from the screen. “You wouldn’t get it because you’re where you’re supposed to be. I’m just biding my time down here and cringing every time I see a cowboy hat coming my way. That’s a shitload of cringing by the way.”

That call only lasts a few more minutes. Santana doesn’t end up hearing Rachel’s big news.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana frowns and has the urge to look around for the shorter girl. How the hell did she know where Santana was sitting? Rachel doesn’t answer when she flat out asks if she needs to alert the police that she’s being stalked and if she should tell them her hunch is that they should check New York City for a singing, midget culprit.

It’s three days before she’s able to get Brittany on Skype again. Twelve before she gets any communication from Quinn. (She doesn’t count the random butt dial but makes a mental note to make fun of Quinn for it later and suggest that she get her butt its own phone). She’s stopped counting how long it’s been since she’s gotten an email from Mercedes.

Rachel, on the other hand, she hears from every day. Email, text, instant message, Facebook message, Skype … Santana is pretty sure that if Rachel knew how, she’d also employ smoke signals in her daily communication schedule. Too bad Western Union discontinued their telegram service. That would have been kind of cool.

The thing that pisses off Santana the most about this is that it doesn’t piss her off at all. She doesn’t mind and heaven help anyone who tries to suggest that she could, maybe, in a tiny way, possibly even sort of look forward to Rachel’s messages. 

The second she steps out of Modern Lit, her phone makes a binging noise that she’s sure is robot talk for “another text from Rachel.” The girl runs like clockwork. She knows Santana’s schedule and sends ridiculous messages that make Santana feel like maybe distance doesn’t matter because, damn, it’s like Rachel is right there striking up a conversation after every single class.

_Did your prof get his spitting under control yet? This is the only excuse I’ll accept for you choosing a seat at the back of the classroom._

Santana frowns and has the urge to look around for the shorter girl. How the hell did she know where Santana was sitting? Rachel doesn’t answer when she flat out asks if she needs to alert the police that she’s being stalked and if she should tell them her hunch is that they should check New York City for a singing, midget culprit.

Biology:  _What’s for lunch today?_

Santana makes the mistake of replying that she never eats lunch after biology class. There is something about staring at pictures of the human body, all veins and organs, that just turns her off of food for a bit.

Rachel sends a text so long that it arrives in four parts. Parts one and two include the health risks associated with not adhering to a healthy diet schedule. Part three is something that seems like a cut and paste about creating an efficient metabolism from Web MD and part four is a rundown of Rachel’s own eating habits.

Santana takes a picture of an apple, bites it, and then takes another picture. When she gets to her dorm room, she emails both pictures to Rachel with the subject line: “Lunch. Happy?” and the main text of the message simply reads: “Now shut up.”

And then there’s Rachel’s attempts at humor which, okay, are kind of funny. In a lame, totally self-centered way.

Philosophy 101:  _What is the sound of one hand clapping? I have no idea. I can’t hear anything over my standing ovation._

Santana laughs. Every single, goddamned time. She laughs, then looks around to see if anyone saw her laughing - all by herself, staring at her phone. Santana might not feel the need to make new besties but she sure as hell doesn’t want any of these Betty Jos or Billy Bobs thinking she’s crazy.

She responds the same way every time:  _Stick to singing._

Rachel never replies. She sends exactly one text after each of Santana’s classes, receives one (usually snarky) reply and then ignores the fact that there was any earlier communication when they Skype later at night.

And they do.

What starts out as every couple of days when there’s something to talk about becomes a nightly routine. Nightly. As in every freaking night Santana sits herself down at her computer and waits for her chirpy friend to log on. No, that makes her sound desperate. 

She’s not. And to prove it, she makes Rachel extend the video chat invitation. Santana never clicks that little button first. Never. Not once. She won’t do it. That would be … she’s not desperate and she’s not that lonely.

In fact, Santana’s got those girls from her cheer squad just falling all over themselves to be her friend. They love her “Big City” attitude and Santana doesn’t have the heart - or maybe she just likes the idea of having “Big City” anything - to correct them. Lima, a big city? At least she’s never watched a horse give birth or, you know, had a pet cow named Milky or something. 

And anyway, it’s not like Santana cares if these people get to know her. The real her, that is. You know, they can have a field day with the spunky girl who can do back-handsprings off the pyramid. She’s even cool with them wanting to party with her and they seem tickled by her personal goal of giving ridiculous nicknames to every single one of their boyfriends (and even though Carly’s boyfriend is, like, seven feet tall, give or take, she’s reserved “Lurch” for Finn).

It’s so familiar, really. People are happy with what they see on the surface but don’t actually give enough of a shit to actually try to get to know her. Awesome. College is “High School 2.0.”

Except, as it turns out, there are a handful of lucky people from high school who do know Santana. Really know her.

Brittany knows that she can recite the scripts to both “Bring it On” and “The Birdcage.” And, yes, she puts Robin Williams to shame when she does the Martha Graham/Madonna bit. She loves the comedy of the movies but underdogs making good and flaming gaymos kind of mean something to her - and Brittany knows that, too.

Quinn knows that black licorice is her guilty pleasure and, knowing that the smell of black licorice makes Quinn’s stomach turn, she also knows that Santana will eat it and then sit really close and use lots of words that start with “H” just to see how long Quinn can go before moving away in disgust.

There isn’t any more name calling or fist-fights with Quinn. The blonde recognizes what that means. After everything they’ve been through, she’s one of Santana’s special people. The good-natured teasing doesn’t stop but heaven help anyone who tries to tease Quinn (or any of Santana’s other people). Quinn knows what Santana’s friendship includes: banter, teasing and a shitload of protection.

Mercedes knows that Santana will never, ever get over the deaths of Michael Jackson or Whitney Houston and that she will always, always, always choose an Amy Winehouse cover to the original - no matter who sang it. If someone found a recording of Jesus singing a hymn and then found a recording of Amy Winehouse covering it  Santana would say Amy’s was better. No question.

She’s also learned that Santana’s full of shit when it comes to singing solos. Sure, she liked it fine but given a duet with Rachel or herself? Please, Mercedes saw how fast Santana was up on that. It’s why she gave her friend a CD of all of the duets the quick-tempered brunette had sung with her friends. Mercedes knows a lot about Santana, actually, including that it’s in her best interest not to mention how tightly Santana hugged her or how her eyes glistened a bit after she opened her graduation gift.

Rachel knows that she blames food in the shapes of animals for her disinterest in becoming a vegetarian. Hell, she was raised eating gummy bears, animal crackers and those chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs. Really, her parents were conditioning her to be a carnivore.

She also knows, of course, that Santana only makes a big deal about not wanting to be a vegetarian because Rachel is a vegetarian.  Just like she refuses to admit she doesn’t hate Celine Dion just because Rachel idolizes her (after Barbra, Patti and Bernadette, of course). It’s not that she’s anti-Rachel. It’s just that Rachel is … Rachel.

But maybe they’re both still working on figuring that out. 

And, okay, so, it’s not that weird that Rachel is on the list of people who Santana feels really know her. She talks to her every night, right? So, yeah. She should know something about her. It’s not weird. It was just, like, bound to happen or something.

So, why Santana is thrown for a loop when Rachel excitedly tells her that she’s coming to visit is beyond her. Rachel Berry in Kentucky? Santana closes her eyes and tries not to imagine the shorter brunette showing up in Daisy Dukes, all legs and perfect little ass, and a tie-in-the-front flannel shirt.

“No.”

 ”What do you mean ‘no’?” Rachel pouts and Santana has to close her eyes again.

“Why the hell do you want to come down here? You live in fuckin’ New York City, Rachel. Have you already run out of people to annoy there?” The second she hears herself say that last part, she winces.

“If that’s how you feel about it, I don’t have to come.” Rachel’s pout deepens. “I apologize if the thought of my visiting annoys you.”

“Rach …” But Santana’s apology never makes it to the other’s girl’s ears. The video chat is disconnected.

That nearly forces Santana’s hand. She stares at Rachel’s name and that stupid little green button she has never used. She may have even let the cursor hover over it. But dammit if she’s going to bend on this. Rachel calls her. Not the other way around.

Santana slams her laptop shut and crosses her arms over her chest. She mutters to herself as she gets up and rummages in her backpack for her cell phone. “Ridiculous, dramatic, gnome …” Santana purses her lips. “… dammit.”

 :  _I didn’t mean it that way, Rachel. You didn’t have to hang up on me._

She stares at her phone waiting for a reply. After five minutes of silence, she types furiously.

 :  _What’s your problem? I pretty much apologized._

Santana hits send and frowns when she doesn’t get an immediate response.

:  _Rachel. I have no plans tonight. That means I’ll be texting you every three minutes until you reply._

A wicked smile spreads over Santana’s face when her phone remains silent.

_: Fine. Enjoy an evening of free humor, compliments of Snix …_

_: What did the banana say to the vibrator?_

_: Why are you shaking? She’s gonna eat me._

Nothing.

  _: There was a young man from Cape Horn_

_: Who wished that he’d never been born_

_: He wouldn’t have been_

_: if his father had seen …_

_: … that the end of his condom had torn._

Santana smiles when Rachel replies with “That’s horrible.”

_: I didn’t even get to “There once was a young girl from Funt” …_

Her phone rings immediately.

“Don’t you dare send that word to my phone, Santana Lopez!”

She has to hold the phone away from her ear to protect it from the volume of Rachel’s voice.

“Calm your shit, Rachel. I was just trying to get your attention and get you to talk to me. Mission a-freakin-complished. Stop shrieking at me.”

“I do not shriek. That would go against everything I do to preserve my vocal chords and keep them at their healthiest.”

 It’s silent for a moment.

 ”Lecture done? Are we even now?”

 Rachel huffs. “You said I was annoying and your apology wasn’t much of an apology at all … and your texts were both immature and inappropri-“

“If you’d like, I could recite some more limericks …” Santana smirks when the other girl pauses. “You can come visit but I can’t promise you’ll have fun. Why don’t you spend your pre-performance break doing something you’ll actually enjoy?”

“I plan on it. In Kentucky, with you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana will have to warn Rachel about the food. Again. Maybe if she uses Carly as an example, Rachel won’t giggle and smile at her like she thinks Santana is being cute or … well, maybe not cute because Santana doesn’t do cute. The little brunette carries off cute well enough for both of them.

There’s no point in arguing. Rachel’s made up her mind and, as much as Santana would hate to admit it, she’s kind of excited about her friend’s visit. Not excited enough to really clean her room, hide the collection of “lesbefriendly” movies that was Brittany’s graduation gift to her, or buy more than, you know, a couple of vegan friendly things for her mini-fridge. Okay, three Nogurts and some off-brand soy ice cream. But that’s it.

And, shit, who knew Kentucky markets carried vegetables? Santana figures it’s just something else for them to deep fry at their little state fair do-si-dos. She’s pretty sure that Carly’s still got stomach cramps from eating that stick of fried butter and then chasing it with deep fried Kool-Aid at the fair during freshman orientation. And that was months ago.

Santana will have to warn Rachel about the food. Again. Maybe if she uses Carly as an example, Rachel won’t giggle and smile at her like she thinks Santana is being cute or … well, maybe not cute because Santana doesn’t do cute. The little brunette carries off cute well enough for both of them.

As quickly as that thought enters mind, Santana gets a headache and goes back to not cleaning her room and not planning things to keep her friend entertained.

When Rachel shows up at her door, looking every bit like Rachel Berry and not at all like Daisy Mae, Santana looks both ways down the hall, gives one boy a raised eyebrow and then pulls the other girl, rolling pink suitcase and all, into her room.

“Did anyone say anything to you?”

Rachel stands in her spot and lets her eyes roam around Santana’s dorm room. It looks just like it always looks when she’s Skyping with Santana – just bigger. And maybe cleaner.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, invite you to marry a first cousin or something …” 

“I ran into your R.A. when I was looking for your room, you know.” Rachel shoots a glare at her friend. “She’s from Oregon.”

“And? Fine, she’s not a hick. She’s a happy, sunshine hippie. Is that really better?” Santana rolls her eyes and plops herself down on her bed. “Welcome to Casa Lopez, located on the quaint, which is just a nice word for boring, Louie U campus. I didn’t arrange, like, a parade or anything to welcome you so, hope that’ll do. And the tour’s super short.”

She points to a small appliance in the corner of the room. “Fridge.” She leans back on her bed. “Where I sleep.” Then she points her toes and taps the thinly carpeted floor. “Where you sleep.”

Rachel giggles. “I feel very welcomed. Thank you.”

“So, now that you’re here and you can see I’m living champagne wishes and caviar dreams,” the darker-haired girl pins the other girl with her stare. “Wanna tell me why you’re really here?”

The smaller brunette opens her mouth but is stopped by a hand with perfectly manicured nails held up in front of her. “And don’t say you’re here to visit with me. I call bullshit.”

Rachel rolls her eyes and points to the bed. “May I?”

“If you must.” Santana barely scoots over, giving the other girl the barest amount of space upon which to perch her small frame.

“As you know, we’re coming upon the point in our schedules at NYADA where the entire student body becomes immersed in the process of …”

 ”Ohmygod, Rachel,” Santana blinks and then rubs her eyes. “ … short version.”

 “I don’t feel I’ll be properly prepared to begin the performance process should I remain in my dorm room over the short break.” Rachel nods, obviously happy with her summation.

 “Too short.” Santana wrinkles her nose and pushes her brows together in what Rachel has nicknamed (not that she’d ever tell her friend) the “scrunchy face.” “Never thought I’d hear myself say that to you. Well, about something you said and not about, well, you, in general.”

She pulls her legs under her and sits cross-legged in front of her friend. “What’s wrong with your room? Looked nice enough unless you were just showing me the non-shitty part of it or something.”

“My room is fine. I’ve managed to make it as homey as possible. Now, my roommate …” the statement hangs and only when Rachel starts picking at her skirt does Santana realize that’s all she’s getting.

The one time Santana actually wants to hear the girl talk, she clams up. She has the urge to look outside and see if the sky is bright purple or, like, on fire. It’s either the End Times or she’s in the friggin Twilight Zone.

“So, what? She thinks you talk too much?” That earns her a frown and a slap on the arm. “So it’s the snoring, then?” Another slap. “Ow, cut it out, Tinkerbell. I’m trying to help you make lemonade …” Santana smirks as she singsongs the last word and she puts her hand on Rachel’s – just to keep from getting smacked again, of course. 

And anyway, Rachel doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, her cheeks almost seem to color when she looks down at the way their hands rest together between them. Her pout falls away and she smiles sweetly before asking, “Do you listen to everything I say?”

“Fuck no, I don’t listen to anything you say. I’m just thirsty,” Santana replies as she rolls her eyes.  “So, what’s wrong with your roommate?”

“She’s a very nice girl. Many,” Rachel’s eyes roll wide before she looks meaningfully into Santana’s as she emphasizes the next word “many young men seem to agree from what I’ve heard coming from her side of the curtain.”

“Hold up. Nuh uh.” Santana squints and wrinkles her nose again.  “Where’s she finding straight boys at your school?”

Her friend’s hand jumps under her own, making Santana quite happy to have kept it trapped. Another slap averted.

Almost. She didn’t account for the other hand. 

Santana immediately clamps her free hand over that one, too. No one puts the slap down on her in her own room. Not even Rachel, whose eyes keep darting down to their joined hands and then over to the Marley posted Santana brought from home and posted over her bed.

“Stop being violent, munchkin.”

“Stop being a heterophobe. There are plenty of straight boys at my school, Santana. And that’s not the point. The point is that I would like to spend my few days off feeling comfortable. And I can’t do that in my room.”

“But you can do it here?” Santana lets go of Rachel’s hands and leans back, giving her friend an appraising look. “I’m not even comfortable here … and I live here.”

Rachel kicks off her ballet flats and mimics her friend’s position, pushing her skirt down to make sure she’s decent when she crosses her legs. “That’s the genius of my plan. During my visit, we’ll do things that you’ll enjoy so that when I leave, you’ll have positive associations with your new home. And when I leave, I’ll have had a fun and somewhat relaxing visit with my best friend.”

It isn’t so much Rachel’s blinding smile that leaves Santana speechless, though she might be able to admit it is somewhat endearing – you know, if someone was beating her with a stick and forcing her to name things she didn’t hate about Rachel -  but she really wasn’t expecting any proclamations of friendship. Or, you know, best friendship. Or, whatever.

“Little Lady Hummel is your best friend, remember? He’s the one with pretty hair, sparkly eyes and, I’m pretty sure, they are basing the next Disney princess off him.” 

Rachel merely shrugs. “I talk to you more often and about things which lack the triviality of topics about which Kurt and I converse.” She gives Santana a shy smile. “And if hair was a measure of one’s ability to be a good friend, I’d have a million friends. Not that you don’t also have pretty hair. You do. Quite pretty but that’s not the point.”

She’s met with a raised eyebrow and Rachel immediately drops her gaze to where her fingers are tangling together in her lap. “I love Kurt but he’s got his things and I’ve got mine and – we’re not as close as we were. But you and I … “ Rachel looks up through her eyelashes and hazards a glance at the girl sitting opposite her, “… I feel like we’ve really come a long way.”

If Rachel is looking for confirmation from Santana, she doesn’t show her disappointment when her friend replies with a semi-thoughtful look followed by a one-shoulder half-shrug. 

“So, do you want to go to a football game or do you want to hang out here until I get back?”

Rachel’s frown is deep and is too much like a pout for Santana’s liking.

“What? If I don’t get my cheer on, I don’t get my classes paid for. You know the deal.”

“But you want me to come along, right?”

Santana sighs. “It wouldn’t suck if you came with me, if that’s what you’re asking.”  

Rachel dips her head and looks through her lashes, a tiny smile gracing her lips. “I think I’d have more fun at the game than I would sitting here. And, anyway, I came to spend time with you. ”

“And, if by spending time with me, you mean watching a bunch of girls jump around in short skirts,” Santana slides off the bed, “you won’t be disappointed. But I might start to question your sexuality.” She tilts her head and smiles. “I might even introduce you to the squad if you promise not to, like, hold up a sign during the game that says that I’m your very bestest friend in the whole, wide world.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Don’t be silly.” She smirks and adds, “When would I have found time to make a sign? If you’d like I could doodle something on a piece of printer paper and write ‘Santana plus Rachel equal BFFs’ on it …”

Santana’s eyes narrow in attempt to intimidate Rachel. When Rachel cutely covers her mouth and giggles (again), she rolls her eyes in faux-annoyance.

“I promise not to embarrass you in front of your friends, Santana,” the little brunette, her eyes wide and hopeful, says honestly.

“You think I’m worried about that? Please. I just don’t want them thinking you like it here and want to be, like, indoctrinated in the ways of barbecue.” Santana lets a shudder run through her and scowls. “I’ve seen Gremlins. You’re all cute now, but once they feed you, you’ll turn into one of, “ she nods her  head toward her door, “them.”  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, there is very little about Louisville that is as Santana described it. Half of the cheer team aren't even from the south, few of them have Southern accents and she has a feeling that not one of them has ever participated in, let alone become a state champion at a frog jumping, pie eating or spitting contest.

Santana tries to act surprised at how much her cheer-friends like Rachel. And, yes, she always makes sure that she attaches "cheer" to that specific descriptor lest anyone think she actually considers any of these folks real friends.

She laughs out loud when Kevin (also known as "The Ginger Giant" or, when he's being especially obtuse, "Grawp") looks at Rachel with wide eyes and proclaims that "oh my stars, she's so tiny!" and takes a huge step back (the only kind he can, Santana figures) and refuses to shake her hand because he's scared of breaking her "itty bitty fingers."

Santana's also appropriately embarrassed at how many of her friends (a loose term) choose to start their conversations with the smaller brunette by saying "So, you're Rachel! I've heard so much about you!"

Rachel grins and, at some point, takes to giggling at each instance of that particular greeting. And then there's this weird thing Rachel's doing with her arm.

One second she laughing at something Carly or Jill or that new blonde girl (whose name Santana can't seem to remember) said and the next she's got Santana's arm hugged tightly in her own, a tiny smile pulling at her lips.

For the most part, though, the visit goes really well. Rachel cheers for Santana, who is cheering for the football team. They visit indie record stores that Rachel found by Googling "fun things to do in Louisville for people who don't like country music,"  which is an amendment to her earlier search "fun things to do in Louisville for people who don't like Louisville." And they attend a couple of parties, none of which included appearances by beer bongs, cowboy hats or people chewing hay straws.

Rachel is pretty sure that Santana was joking about people wandering the streets with straws of hay sticking out of their mouths, but it's hard to tell because the other girl didn't even crack a smile when she said it.

As it turned out, there is very little about Louisville that is as Santana described it. Half of the cheer team aren't even from the south, few of them have Southern accents and she has a feeling that not one of them has ever participated in, let alone become a state champion at a frog jumping, pie eating or spitting contest. 

All of them, by the way, have a full set of teeth. 

Okay, sure, there are cliques. Once again, Santana gets grouped with the popular crowd, but this time she doesn't seem to care. Yeah, she hangs out with them but it seems likes she does it because she just can't be bothered to find anyone else to hang out with.  She really is biding her time, just like she said. 

Her grades, she finds out, are really good. Even if her quick-witted friend isn't into the social aspects of college, she is quite obviously excelling in her studies. Rachel sees one of Santana's essays sitting on top of her text books and is appropriately impressed at the circled grade at the top that is accompanied by an "excellent points, insightful, well-written" comment written in red. 

It's not that she thought her friend wasn't intelligent, she just figured that Santana spent the bulk of her time coming up with snarky put-downs for her peers or perhaps sulking in her room, alone. (She's not entirely wrong about the latter). 

Rachel's instinct, which is off only a little bit of the time - not often enough to even bring up really - tells her that this is all Brittany-centered. Throughout high school it was always Santana and Brittany and now, for a year at least, Santana is on her own. And Brittany, Rachel knows from Tina, is actually flourishing in her second final year in high school - something she thinks Santana didn't expect when she left.

The expectation, of course, was that Santana would be the one to make her own way, leaving Brittany to fend for herself. Santana would be the one to figure out the course of her life and follow it away from Lima - and Brittany. So, while Brittany enjoys her senior do-over year as class president, glee club star (self-proclaimed) and just all around cool person with lots of friends and even a few more-than friends to keep her busy, Santana puts on a brave smile and does her best to hold onto her friendship with the easy-going blonde.

The distance makes being (just) friends easier.

 Santana is under the impression that distance makes being friends with Rachel easier, too. She's pretty sure that knowing that she can just shut Rachel off (well, shut off her computer or phone) makes the other girl bearable. But, now that she's here - sitting on her bed and flipping through one of Santana's lit books - Santana realizes that she actually likes her company.

"I'm getting an apartment next year," Rachel says, her eyes skimming over a handful of poems by early American authors. "What do you think, barista or diner waitress?" 

Santana continues to touch up her eye makeup. "Barista. No question." 

"... because ..." 

With a shrug, she says, "I can't picture you carrying trays of food. You've got those," Santana tries to hold back her smirk and affects a Southern accent, "itty bitty fingers." 

"Careful, Santana," Rachel teases. "You're starting to sound like a native."

She can't duck fast enough and gets an eyeliner pencil to the forehead. "Shut up, Piglet." 

Rachel wrinkles her nose in response, grabs the pencil and, after rubbing her finger against the sore spot on her forehead, taps the makeup pencil against the textbook in her lap. "Does that make you Eeyore?" 

"No, it makes me Christopher fuckin' Robin, who like, rules Neverland Forest." 

"The Hundred Acre Woods." 

"Whatever the fuck. This is my domain. I throw the insults." Santana's scowl is deep and  she crosses her arms and glares at her friend. 

"Well, I was going to say that, up until this last bit of conversation, I've enjoyed myself immensely during this visit. And," Rachel pauses for effect, "I was also going to say that this is how I imagine having a good roommate would be. Barring sleeping on the floor, of course." 

"I'm a saint." 

Rachel smiles. "It helped me make my decision. I'm definitely leaving the residence hall next year. And if that means supplementing my bank account by getting an ill-paying job that has the potential for tips, then, so be it." 

"Or you could Craig's List for a roommate." 

Rachel shakes her head. "Craig's List Killer." 

Santana bites her tongue because she's not the girl who says something like "we could only be so lucky" anymore. She's not that girl. Not with Rachel, anyway. Fuck, she wishes she was talking to that new, blonde, nameless cheerleader. The barb is just begging to be set flying from her tongue. 

"So, you'll get a job slinging coffee." Santana shrugs. "And if you don't lecture people about the animals products they dump inside their drinks," she pauses and looks Rachel up and down, "and you keep wearing those skirts, you might get decent tips." 

"My legs, while one of my most frequently complimented physical attributes, thank you for noticing, have nothing to do with the level of service I am able to perform." 

It takes every angel in Heaven to keep Santana from asking what kinds of services Rachel thinks she's going to be asked to perform at Cuppa Joe's Steaming Mug of Jitters. Seriously, the girl just walked right into that one. 

But Santana nods instead. She doesn't want the last night of Rachel's visit to turn into a shouting match. Partially  because she's not really feeling it and partially because she doesn't really like the idea of Rachel going home and maybe, if she's mad at Santana, not texting her anymore. Or, like, calling and telling her the stupid stuff that makes up her day. 

Not that she likes that crap. 

Much.

The last night of a visit is never for that kind of stuff, anyway. It's for parties. So, Santana whisks Rachel to a parking lot bonfire that, aside from possibly breaking every fire code in the county, is supposed to have some sort of university history blah blah tradition blah - this isn't the kind of thing Santana makes room for in her head. 

Rachel clutching her hand, her eyes wide with excitement, and her free hand outstretched and pointing at the giant flames that dance up from the bonfire? She might be able to make room to remember that. 

"You made it!" Carly is beaming as she pushes herself closer to her gargantuan boyfriend and wraps his tree-trunk arm over her shoulder. 

Rachel's eyes light up in delight as she giggles and leans closer to Santana. "We did. Thanks for inviting me to tag along." 

Santana frowns, "You're not tagging along. You're here with me." 

Carly raises her eyebrow a smidge and looks up smugly at her boyfriend. He gives her a dubious look. His mouth slowly spreads into a smile as he addresses Santana, "So, I got a couple of my Delt boys to join us. One for you and one for your teeny friend." 

"Yeah, thanks," Santana replies, boredom lacing her voice. "Not interested." 

Kevin blinks a few times in confusion, obviously not used to anyone not being interested in hooking up with his frat brothers. “But they’re already here and, you know, I told them about you.” He nods knowingly. “No strings or anything. Just some fun …”  

Santana shakes her head. “Yeah, like I said, thanks but … “ 

"What about you, Rachel?" Carly asks, her voice straddling the line between friendly and predatory. "Are you interested?" 

Rachel doesn't hesitate to shake her head. "No, I don't - " she stops and thinks for a moment before deciding on, "It's not really my thing." 

Carly smiles up at her boyfriend and, as she pulls him away, she whispers loud enough for both girls to hear, "See? I told you." 

"What the fuck?" Santana's nose wrinkles, her confusion evident. "Did they just try to set us up with dates?" 

"I don’t know if I would classify them as dates. But I can tell you this, I don't do one-night stands." Rachel shrugs and then tugs on Santana's hand, leading her around the parking lot as they look at the different student activity organization booths. 

It's been a few minutes since either of them spoke, so Santana can't really blame Rachel for not following her next question. "What, like, ever?" 

"What, like, ever, what?" 

"You're not cute." 

"You're not specific. And yes, I am cute." 

Santana doesn't refute Rachel's claim. "You never have one-night stands?" 

"Of course not!" The smaller girl looks completely affronted, as though Santana suggested that she dance naked in a forest and sacrifice kittens or drink puppy blood in the name of Satan. "Not only is it unsafe to bring someone you don't know into your place of residence, or to even get into a car with a stranger, but in this day and age ...." 

"Are you seriously lecturing me right now?" 

Rachel clamps her mouth shut, drops Santana's hand and crosses her arms. "Do you need a lecture?" 

The sound that comes out of Santana's mouth is something between a sprinkler head starting and a snake warning its prey. "Are you asking me if I've been getting some good ol', down-home booty?" 

The blush on Rachel's face is answer enough.

"Not that it's any of your business." Santana looks around at their fellow bonfire-goers. "No one here does it for me. I would rather go without than risk hearing 'yee-haw' at that special moment, if you know what I mean." 

Santana is pretty sure the discussion is over when an arm is wound around hers and she’s being tugged toward another booth. Really, it’s better this way. Rachel wasn’t embarrassed enough for her to get any enjoyment out of it and, in all honestly, sex isn’t something you talk about. Either you’re doing it or you aren’t.  

And if you're not, there's no point talking about it. 

“So, there’s no one, then?” 

“Do you think I’d have time to talk to you every day if I was seeing anyone?” Santana rolls her eyes, her annoyance at the topic obvious. 

“Oh.” 

“Oh?” 

“Well, I’d heard about you and Brittany and, honestly, with the lack of discussion about her, I thought the rumor mill might have been on the right track this time,” the little brunette says. 

Santana stops walking, forcing Rachel to stop as well. “There’s a rumor?” 

Rachel nods but doesn’t elaborate. 

“You realize that if you don’t tell me, I’m going to waltz your little elfin ass over to the bonfire and throw you in, right?”  

The smaller girl frowns. “Threats aren’t necessary, Santana.” She flattens her skirt and folds her hands in front of her. “People are saying that you broke up with Brittany the day you left for school because you didn’t want to be tied down. They think you left her to be able to party without a guilty conscience.” 

“That’s bullshit. And stop doing that.” Santana pushes at Rachel’s hands, making them fall to her sides. “You look like a fucking Von Trapp, and not one of the grown up ones. Like the little one who falls asleep on the stairs.” 

“Greta.” 

Santana shoots her a dirty look. 

“Which is not important at this moment,” Rachel presses her lips together. “But it might be …” When Santana’s glare only intensifies, she clears her through and says, “… will never be useful to you and is definitely not pertinent to this conversation.” 

“… which is over because you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Santana shoves her hands into her jacket pockets. If Rachel thinks she’s going to get to hold her hand now, forget it. 

“Then tell me.” 

The taller girl purses her lips and then rolls her eyes, one eyebrow raising as though challenging the other girl. 

“We’re best friends, remember?” Rachel asks, her eyes widening with hope. 

“I’m your best friend. I never said you were mine.” 

The smaller girl looks down at her hands, now clasped in front of her again, her fingers twirling around each other. “Right.”  Rachel’s brows push together. “That’s true.” 

And, well, fuck. Okay, that face that Rachel is making? Santana heaves an enormous sigh, as though it takes all her physical strength, and waits for the other girl to meet her eyes. 

“Look, you wanna know? Brittany thought it would be a good idea if we broke up. Not my idea.” Santana laughs humorlessly. “I’m not, like, ho-ing it up at this hoe-down. I go to class, I eat in the cafeteria and then I go to my room and talk to you until I go to sleep. Sometimes, if I’m lucky enough to be squeezed in after Lord T’s pedicure, before a taping Fondue for Two or anywhere in the middle of the most ridiculous Skype schedule I’ve ever heard of, I get to talk to Brittany.”  

Santana looks around to see if anyone she knows is within earshot. “She broke up with me.” She frowns. “You can spread  _that_  around if you like.” 

“I don’t want to.” Rachel reaches out and places her hand on one of Santana’s pocket-covered hands. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“I’m not upset.” The darker-haired girl shrugs. “I just don’t like when people assume things about me. I mean, do you like that people assume that you just sat around crying into a bowl of Nogurt, singing ballads about broken hearts or dying puppies or some shit when you and Finn broke up?” 

“I don’t know any songs about dying puppies …” 

Santana sighs. "Point being? You're supposed to be my friend - not one of the gossips, okay? You wanna know something? Ask me." 

Rachel has the presence of mind to look ashamed as she nods curtly. "You're very right. I apologize." 

"Yeah, well ..." Santana glances around, her gaze settling on the bonfire. "No big." 

The smaller girl gives her an expectant look that Santana can feel and she lets out a tired breath. “You want to know something …”

Rachel half-shrugs as she give her friend a tight-lipped smile. 

Santana rolls her eyes and the frowns. 

“You’re still in love with her or … “ 

“Or …” Santana’s annoyance is almost tangible at this point. “Or nothing. I love Brittany and I’ll always love her. I won’t, like, ever be with her like that again but she’s still my girl.” 

The smaller girl pushes her brows together. “So, you’re in love with her, then.” 

“If you’re gonna ask me something, you need to listen.”  Santana makes a big show of speaking slowly as she looks into Rachel’s eyes. “I love Brittany. She’s my girl but we’re not like that anymore. I’m not broken-hearted or whatever shit you’re thinking right now, Short Bob Drama-Pants.” 

Rachel doesn’t know what to say after that. The visit was going so well up until this point. Sure there were a few times when the impatient girl threw small objects at her to either get her attention or to make her shut up; but, for the most part, she was really enjoying spending time, in person, with Santana. 

A devious smile lights up Rachel’s face as she grabs Santana’s hand. “Come on. We’re leaving.” 

“Oh, thank God.” Santana says, her eyes lighting up. “Finally, something comes out of your mouth that I want to hear.” 

The shorter girl pouts and shoots her friend with a dirty look. “If you recall, I also said you were my best friend … and! And! And that you have pretty hair.” When the other girl’s mouth opens, presumably to argue, she holds up a finger and shakes her head. “You may not realize it yet, but we’re best friends. You’ll see.” 

Santana has no idea where Rachel is taking her but wherever it is requires a stop at the room for a change of attire (because “we look like college kids”) and taxi fare.  


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel’s eyes are bright with excitement as she spins around to take in their surroundings. Vibrant red walls, neon lights and, of course, the requisite mirror ball hangs over a large dance floor. The bar is small in comparison. Not that it matters since Rachel’s forbidden drinking.

Santana stands outside of the club staring at the sign. “You brought me to a gay club?” 

“Dancing!” Rachel hops in place. “Yay!” Her eyes are wide with excitement and she’s clapping her hands softly together. 

“And we get in how?” The darker-haired girl eyes the doorman. 

“Really, Santana, you’d think I was the cool one in high school,” the shorter of the two huffs. She rummages in her bag and pulls out two cards. “You’re Anita.” 

“Original.” Santana takes the fake ID and carefully looks it over. “This is actually really good. Like, so much better than the one Puck made for me.” 

“That’s because I know people who know what they’re doing, unlike Noah Puckerman who drew a stick man with a mohawk on an index card and tried to pass it off as his driver's license when he was fourteen.” Rachel frowns. “And, for the record, we’re not using it for drinking. We’re using it to gain entry into a club where we will dance until it’s time for last call.” She punctuates her statement with a bright smile. 

“Last call is a drinking term,” Santana offers. “So, you know, we could take advantage of the dance floor and –“ 

“No. Do I have to take your card away, Anita?” 

With a roll of her eyes, and a quick deflective move of her hand, Santana holds her ID over her head. “Fine. Let’s just – let’s go.” 

As they get closer to the doorman, Rachel spins to face Santana. “And you have to dance with me at least once.” 

“Again. Fine.” 

“And if you meet someone, you can’t ditch me, but I guess you can give her your number.”

“I’m not looking to meet –“ Santana is stopped by a stern look from her friend.

“Fine.”

 “And – “

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Rachel!” Santana grabs the other girl’s shoulders, spins her around and steers her toward the man at the door. 

“It’s Maria!” Rachel whispers harshly before giving the bouncer a wide, show-smile.  

He barely looks at their IDs (or at them) and nods his head, letting them enter.  He’s already not bothering to card the young men behind them by the time they cross the threshold, the floor vibrating with heavy bass under their feet.

Rachel’s eyes are bright with excitement as she spins around to take in their surroundings. Vibrant red walls, neon lights and, of course, the requisite mirror ball hangs over a large dance floor. The bar is small in comparison. Not that it matters since Rachel’s forbidden drinking. 

Santana just looks at her friend, trying not to smile at the look of delight she sees on her face. “So, now …” 

The smaller girl reaches out, grabs Santana’s hands and dances backward toward the dance floor. “… now we dance!” 

And they do. To every song. All night (with a short pause for a quick bathroom break). Couples dancing nearby smile at them as Rachel forces Santana to spin and dip her at the end of a rambunctious Ricky Martin remix. The deejay ends up giving the little brunette a shout out (by name – she bugs him throughout the evening for various requests, including “Duck Soup.”) before spinning her songs. Santana can’t help but notice how at home Rachel seems. 

“You do this a lot in New York, huh?” Santana asks, her voice raised and her mouth close to her friend’s ear so that she can be heard over the thumping music. 

Rachel shrugs and dances in a little circle around her friend. The darker-haired girl turns her head to watch her in her orbit. 

“It doesn’t make me like it here, you know,” she says, again, trying to speak loud enough to be heard. 

“Then you aren’t trying hard enough.”

She wasn’t expecting that reply. If anything, Santana thought Rachel would give her an adorable pout and maybe relent and let her order a drink. “How can you not like it when there are places like this here?” 

“One place like this.” Santana stops dancing and heads to a small cocktail table near the restrooms. She doesn’t bother to look behind her to see if Rachel is following her. 

She is. Of course she is. It’s Rachel Berry and Rachel Berry doesn’t back down when someone implies she’s not right about something. 

“One place is better than none.” Rachel’s optimism is met with a severe eye-roll. “And for your information, there are at least two others that I found on my Google search.” 

“You Googled-“ Santana chuckles. “Of course you did. You’d have to because, unlike where you live, these places are hidden. Fuck, you have, like, entire neighborhoods with clubs and coffeehouses, bookstores and movie houses … “ She sighs as she picks up a promotional postcard (a bucket of beer for $12.99!) and twirls it around on the table. 

Rachel nods. “You’re right, I do. But you don’t live there and, unless you plan on transferring and you haven’t told me … “ she smirks and taps Santana’s hand, “your very best friend …” 

Santana shakes her head and laughs lightly. “Really? You’re going to try that on me and not even let me get liquored up first?”

 “I’m not proposing marriage, Santana.” 

“That good because gay marriage isn’t legal here.” 

“It is in New York.” 

Santana drops the card on the table and frowns. “I don’t live in New York, remember?” She pushes away from the table and grabs Rachel’s hand. “Forget it, let’s just dance.” 

They don’t talk about New York, Louisville, or the fact that Rachel is leaving in less than sixteen hours.  They dance and laugh and make the most of the last night of their visit. If their giggle-ridden rendition of “Edge of Glory” (dedicated via open-window shout-out to the McKinley Glee club members of 2012) annoys the cab driver, he doesn’t show it. 

Maybe he’s hoping to get a good tip. 

In the morning, everything looks bleak to Santana. Rachel’s leaving – going home to bright lights and stages, to tourists and hot dog venders – and she’s left to finish a paper that’s due in two days. 

She can’t help the tiny smile, though, as she watches Rachel gently stack “souvenirs” from her visit into her rolling suitcase: a Cardinals t-shirt she stole from Santana (it took Santana fifteen minutes to back down from her argument that it’s not stealing if Rachel insisted on asking permission to “steal” it), a ticket to the football game, three flyers for LouieU clubs Rachel will never be part of, the bucket of beer postcard and other little pieces of paper the small brunette acquired over her short stay.  

Rachel goes to into the bathroom to make sure she’s gotten all of her (so, so many) toiletries. If asked, Santana wouldn’t be able to explain why she does what she does next - at least, not without a little bit of snark – but she hops off of her bed, grabs a pen and a pink post-it note, hastily scribbles something and affixes the small, bright page to the back of the beer postcard. 

She’s back in her spot on the bed, looking bored, by the time Rachel returns with two bottles of moisturizer (one face and one body – both necessary), a paddle brush and comb and one small bottle of leave-in hair conditioner.  

“Got it all?”

Rachel presses her lips together and nods. “I’m actually kind of sad to be leaving. I had a really nice time.” 

“Yeah, it was good.” Santana stands up as the other girl zips her suitcase. 

“You’re not walking me outside. The taxi will already be there and if you come with me, I might cry or something.” Rachel sniffles a little and looks up at her friend with wide, watery eyes. “And you already have plenty of things to tease me about.” 

Santana rolls her eyes and steps forward, folding her arms around Rachel. “I’m actually going to miss having you around, you know, in person. It’s gonna suck to have to go back to being stalked via text message.” 

Rachel chuckles and closes her arms around the taller girl.  “We’ll Skype tonight, right?” 

“You’re penciled in on my schedule.” 

The small brunette slaps Santana’s arm. “Penciled!” 

Santana rubs her arm and smiles sweetly at her friend. “I’ll be here and waiting for your call.”  

And just like that, Rachel is gone (along with her bright pink, eye-sore of a suitcase) and  Santana is left alone in her dorm room. 

She’s already looking longingly at her computer. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The third eff is for 'frickin'. I mean, it's really for something else, but I know how you feel about," Santana rolls her eyes and teases, "vulgar language."

Santana’s head pops up from where it rests against her folded arms when she hears the incoming Skype call. She doesn’t even bother to check the name on her screen before accepting the call – she knows it’s going to be Rachel. 

One: Rachel said she’d call. Two: Rachel is the person who calls most often. Three: She is maybe, sort of, a little bit hoping it’s Rachel because she might be, sort of, a little bit already missing having her around. 

Santana’s smile turns to a confused look when Brittany’s face appears on her screen. 

“You’re home!” Brittany squeals and bounces herself against her mattress. “I didn’t know if you had a game or something tonight.” 

“Yeah, no, I’m home – here. I’m here.” Santana’s brows push together. “Everything okay?”  

“Of course everything’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?” the blonde replies. 

Santana leans her elbow on her desk and rests her cheek in her palm. “I dunno. I guess I wasn't expecting to hear from you tonight.” 

“Okay, so,” Brittany picks up her laptop and shifts it onto her lap. Her friend squints and looks away from the computer screen, obviously not fond of the shaking visual she’s seeing. “Can I interview you?” 

“What the hell for?” 

“I’m taking yearbook class and I want to write a story about you for this year’s book.” Brittany’s smile is wide.

“You can’t, Britt.” Santana says simply. “You can’t write a story about someone for the yearbook unless they actually go to your school. Which I don’t.” 

“But you could be, like, a success story! It’ll be perfect.” 

“Or why don’t you interview Rachel? She’s, like, in New York and stuff. I bet that’s more interesting than an interview about what part of the pig got barbecued at a pre-game pep rally,” Santana explains. 

The blonde pouts. “But she told me to interview you.” 

Santana rolls her eyes. “She did, did she? Well, tell her that I told you –“ The dark-haired girl stops talking when she sees Brittany scramble off of her bed and out of the camera’s range. “ – where are you going?” 

Brittany reappears with a pen and she’s furiously scribbling on her palm. “Tell Rachel, you told me … “ She looks up expectantly. “I’m writing it down so I don’t forget. It’s called taking notes. Go ahead.”  

Santana can’t help but smile. “Look, just tell her that I don’t want to be interviewed, okay? She’s always wanted to be in the spotlight, let her.” She’s quiet for a moment as she looks at her friend. “Did you want anything else or was that it, Britt?” 

“No, I think that’s it. If she still refuses, I could ask Quinn.” Brittany shrugs. “I guess Yale is as good as New York, right?” 

The dark-haired girl laughs. “Yeah, something like that." Her phone buzzes and she holds up a finger to her friend and takes a second to read the message. 

: _Why is your Skype busy?_  

Santana's smile brightens and she puts her phone down and looks at the blonde girl on her screen. "Look, I’m actually waiting for someone to call, so I think I’m gonna go, okay?”  

“Okay. Have fun," Brittany says. "I’ll talk to you later. Love you.” 

Santana smiles softly at her friend. “Love you, too, Britts.” She disconnects the call and quickly clicks on Rachel's name. 

"Hey you, I was just talking to Brittany," she says after Rachel's face appears on the screen and she settles herself more comfortably in her computer chair. "Good trip home?" 

Rachel nods and smiles fondly at her friend. "Very nice and I even had a little surprise when I got back to my room." 

The darker-hair girl's eyes widen and she lifts her eyebrows suggestively. "Your roommate was having a threesome?" 

The smaller girl grimaces. "Ew, Santana!" 

Then she sees it. A bright pink post-it note hanging from a picture frame behind Rachel. It's too far away for her to read, but she doesn't need to read it. She knows what it says. 

"Foursome?" 

Rachel shakes her head and laughs. "Stop it. You know what I'm talking about." She looks over her shoulder at the small square of paper. "You didn't have to do that, you know." When she turns back to the camera, she's wearing that beaming smile that makes her eyes light up. 

"I didn't do anything." Santana presses her lips together and shrugs. "Must have been one of your elf relatives playing a joke on you or something. You know, life can't always be about baking cookies in a tree, right? Sometimes you gotta make your own fun." 

"I highly doubt anything of the sort because my relatives, elfin or not, would know that there are two effs, and not three in - " 

The darker-haired girl interrupts her. "Frickin." 

"I'm sorry?" Rachel pouts cutely, her confusion evident. 

"The third eff is for 'frickin'. I mean, it's really for something else, but I know how you feel about," Santana rolls her eyes and teases, "vulgar language." 

"Oh." Rachel smiles as she ducks her head, Santana guesses to look at her fingers in her lap. 

She does that a lot, actually. Santana's gotten used to it and even kind of looks forward to it. It makes Rachel seem young and humble as opposed to the times she's that seasoned-professional who's already a little too weary of the world. 

"How's Brittany? That was good timing, right? I texted just as she had to go." 

"She's good, though she insisted," Santana pins Rachel with a pretend-glare and decides it's too much of an ego-inflater if she lets the other girl know that she hung up with Brittany to talk to her, "that she interview me for the yearbook."

 "What a great idea!" 

"Yeah, I figured you'd like it." The darker-haired girl leans closer to her computer and looks directly into the camera. "It was your idea after all." 

"Brittany isn't very good at being covert." And the pout comes out, again. 

Santana shrugs. "Nope. This is the same girl who told her parents that she'd be sneaking me into her room after they went to bed. Seriously, you thought Brittany would be a good choice to be your partner in sneakdom?" 

"Not a word." 

"Is now, Tinky Wink." Santana raises her brows, daring Rachel to challenge her. 

Santana almost wants to start a tally of the other girl's facial expressions. Pout: III.  Annoyed eye-roll: I (She has to work on getting that number up). Shy smile: II. 

"So, when will this momentous interview take place?" 

The darker-haired girl shrugs. "I dunno. Whenever you or Quinn has time, I guess." 

Rachel frowns. "You're not going to do it?" 

"No and I have no idea why you thought I'd want to. She wants a success story, Rachel, not Alice's adventures with a campus full of Tweedle Dumbs," Santana states, looking pointedly at her friend's image on the screen. "Besides, this seems like something that you'd  be aching to do. Why'd you pass?" 

"I'd rather be highlighted on an anniversary, like fifth or tenth year homecoming," her friends says earnestly. "I'll have much more to show for myself by then." 

"You mean much more to rub in people's faces by then." 

Rachel denies nothing. If anything, the faint smile playing on her lips confirms it. 

"Good for you, then. Let 'em have it, go get 'em tiger and all of that other hip hooray shit." Santana nods firmly. "You deserve to give it to them right where it hurts." 

"You're a very supportive best friend." The smaller girl is grinning widely. 

Santana winces. "Are you going to take that out and wave it around every chance you get?" 

She gets no reply beyond a beaming smile before Rachel looks over her shoulder at the picture frame, again. Santana smiles fondly at the back of her friend's head, making sure to turn it into a playful scowl by the time Rachel is looking at her screen again. 

They talk until Santana starts yawning. Cheer practice, while not nearly as strenuous as the ones she endured in high school, starts early and she used her usual siesta time between classes to start on a personal project. Lots of research. Lots of notecards. Different colored pens and all the rest of that organizational flow-chart kind of crap that goes with it. 

Santana wonders if that's how her hyper-organized friend feels when she gets an idea.  Everything else just stops and all of her focus is on one thing: the possible prize ahead. 

As she climbs into bed, her computer already on sleep mode, her phone announces a received text message. It's from Rachel and it simply reads:  _Good night._

The photo attachment makes Santana smile and her stomach do a weird fluttery thing. She smiles as she makes it Rachel's contact photo. Now, when the other girl calls, she'll see a pink post-it with "S + R = BFFFs" written in her sloping handwriting. 

It's fifteen minutes later when she realizes Rachel didn't call her.  _She_  initiated the Skype session. 

"Fuck." 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Santana's first reaction was to laugh. It was also her second, third and, pretty much every reaction after that. In fact, it's how she reacts when she shares the news with Rachel later that night.

After accidentally blowing off her "no initiating conversations" rule, Santana finds herself reaching out to Rachel more often. Even when the other girl is busy with performances, she finds time to respond. Sometimes Rachel texts her, other times she updates her Facebook status and tags her - Santana has to explain to Brittany that she and Rachel aren't dating when Rachel posts: _"Cold New York night. Staying in, talking on the phone and cuddling up - with Santana Lopez."  
_

Brittany isn't the only one to question Santana and Rachel's relationship, either. After a month or so of sideways looks from Carly (and her ogre of a boyfriend), the dark-haired girl confronts them. They insist they don't have a problem with "the homosexual lifestyle," but make sure Santana knows that they're disappointed she hadn't told them she had a girlfriend. 

They spent the better part of the first semester and even the beginning of second semester trying to hook up Santana with guys from various frats and, had they known she was a lesbian, they would have been working on the sororities, instead. Surely there was another lesbian on campus.  Or had they known she had a girlfriend, they would have at least understood why she holed herself up in her room and talked to a computer until all hours of the night. 

Santana's first reaction was to laugh. It was also her second, third and, pretty much every reaction after that. In fact, it's how she reacts when she shares the news with Rachel later that night. 

"I don't see why that's so funny," Rachel says. Little lines run across her forehead as her brows push together. 

Santana's eyes widen and she can't help but laugh more. "Seriously? They thought you and I were together, Rachel! That's hilarious!" 

"Why? Is it that ridiculous that someone would find me attractive?" Rachel huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. 

"I didn't say you aren't attractive, Rachel." Santana rolls her eyes. "I just said that it's funny that they think you and I would date." 

"Why, exactly?" The smaller girl looks completely affronted by Santana's attitude. 

"Oh, I don't know," she says, "maybe because one of us likes penis and the other doesn't have one? Jesus, Rachel. Why are you getting so bent out of shape about this?"

 Rachel looks down at her hands in her lap. "I'm assuming I'm the former." 

"Well, technically you're both. I mean, you like 'em and you don't have one." Santana smirks evilly. "Unless there's something you're not telling me." 

The icy look Santana receives is enough to kill her chuckle before it escapes her throat. "I'm just teasing you, Rach. C'mon. I know you don't have a-" 

" - I am not exclusively interested in men," the smaller girl says. "Just because my previous relationships were with males doesn't mean that I don't have the capacity to also be interested in women." 

Santana blinks a few times. "Oh. Well. Okay, I didn't know that." She shrugs. "That's cool. But that doesn't mean we're dating just because sometimes you like penis and sometimes you don't." 

"No, but it's also not a ludicrous idea, either." 

Santana just stares at Rachel, unsure of what they're arguing about, exactly. 

"All I'm saying is that it's not ridiculous for anyone to think we could be together." Rachel looks - what is that? hurt? - but Santana doesn't know what to say that wouldn't a) be sticking her foot in her mouth even further or b) come out sounding like a proposition. 

The tiny brunette sighs and decides to change the subject. "I looked at another apartment today." 

Glad for the reprieve, Santana takes the out that's so graciously extended and runs with it. "And? Perfect or bust?" 

"I love it. I can't afford it, but I love it," Rachel replies wistfully. "I took the application. If I'm just looking at my wages, I can't afford it. But, my tips are always really good ..." 

"You can't count on that, Rach." Santana feels horrible for having to be the voice of reason. "You sure you don't want a roommate?" 

"It's not that I don't want a roommate, Santana," she says. "I just want a roommate I can trust. And I don't think I'll find that on Craig's List or Roommates dot com. Daddy said he'd ask Dad about helping me for the first few months so I can add more to my nest egg." 

"So, it's a possibility then, right?" Santana asks, trying to sound hopeful for her friend. "You should send me the info. Let me look it over. If there's something to criticize, I'll find it. Maybe you won't want it so badly." 

The problem is that there is absolutely nothing wrong with the apartment. It's as close to perfect as Santana could ask for her friend. Close to school, tiny kitchen (the girl doesn't like to cook) and large living space (she does like to have friends over). And knowing that other NYADA students live there makes her think that the neighbors are already used to impromptu performances in the elevator and lobby. 

Santana isn't surprised, later, to learn that, by the time she'd looked at the link Rachel provided for her, the other girl had already filled out the paperwork and sent an email making an appointment with the building manager to turn it in. The girl really was in love with the place. 

Their post-high school academic year ends and Santana finds herself back in her old room in Lima with her friend firmly ensconced in a new apartment. The dark-haired girl laughs as she watches Rachel (via Skype) struggle to put together a bookcase with a hex tool.

 "Why can't they just assemble it and sell it like that?" the small girl complains as she tries to fit the hex tool into the screw head. 

"Because it wouldn't be as entertaining," Santana offers. She's sitting on her bed, tossing microwaved popcorn into her mouth and watching the Rachel Berry Variety Hour. It's got singing (of course), drama (Santana never heard  _that_  word come out of Rachel's mouth before), and feats of physical strength (at one point, Rachel throws the tool across the room). 

"You wouldn't be doing any better, you know." Rachel looks at her computer and points at her friend's image on the screen. 

"We'll never know, will we?" she replies as she pulls her dark hair into a pony tail. 

Rachel sits cross-legged and pouts. "This is why I need a roommate. Forget helping to pay for things. I need someone who can put things together." 

Santana laughs and lays on her stomach, readjusting her laptop so that she can still see her friend. "You need a sugar daddy more than you need a worker bee. You really aren't going to look for a roommie? I thought by now you'd have thrown in the towel and decided that paying for the place was more important than possibly living with Jeffrey Dahmer reincarnated." 

The other girl frowns. "That doesn't even make sense. And no." She sighs. "It'll be tight and maybe I won't get to see as many shows as I was hoping to, but it's worth it not to have to worry about who's living with me. Or who she's bringing to our apartment." 

"Maybe you just want your privacy so you can bring people home." Santana wiggles her brows and smirks. 

Rachel laughs. "Right, that's exactly it. Maybe whoever I bring home can put this darn thing together." She slaps her hand against one of the shelves resting against the wall just as Santana's phone dings. 

She reads the text message and laughs. "Carly says 'hi.'" 

"And that's funny because..." 

"Because she still thinks you're my girlfriend," Santana answers. "See?" She turns her phone toward the screen as she reads aloud. 

:  _just checking that you really don't want that giant pennant you won at homecoming. i have the perfect spot for it on my wall, if you're sure. oh! say hi to your girl for me._  

"You won a giant pennant?" 

"Yeah. Go team and all that crap," Santana says, not at all surprised that her friend chooses to focus on that part of the message. 

"Show me!" Rachel scrambles from her spot among the rubble that should be a bookcase and looks intently at her computer screen. "How big is it? Is it like one of those super big ones that covers a whole wall? She said it was giant." 

The darker-haired girl shrugs. "I don't have it. I gave it to Carly. She'll use it and I don't have any reason to keep it. It's not like I need a reminder of a wasted year, anyway." 

Rachel chuckles. "You say that like you're not going back." 

"I'm not." Santana rolls onto her back and then reaches behind her head and places her laptop on her stomach. "It wasn't for me and you know it. So don't act like you're surprised." 

The smaller girl is quiet for a moment as she studies her best friend. Her eyes narrow and she blinks a few times before she asks, "So, what are you going to do? You're not staying in Lima, are you?" 

"Hell no. I got plans, don't you worry about me. I'm making lemonade or some shit like that." Santana winks into the camera. 

Rachel waits to hear what the plans are and frowns when her friend doesn't deliver. She gets a diversion tactic, instead.

"So, it's hilarious that Carly still thinks we're together, right? It's been how long?" Santana chuckles softly. "I could have been more clear, I guess. I just kind of laughed when she suggested it." 

"Yes, I recall the laughter." Rachel's frown deepens and then transforms into a pout. "Joke of the year, from what I remember." 

"It  _was_  pretty funny," Santana agrees. 

"I'm sorry but what, exactly is so funny about it, again? And don't say it's funny because you don't have boy parts."

Santana sits up and puts her laptop on her crossed legs. "Boy parts? Really, Rachel? I know you've seen one and, really, I don't want to know what you did with Finn because I just had lunch and it wasn't good enough to taste twice. But, really, you should be able to say the word." 

"Fine. You don't have a penis," the smaller girls says grudgingly. 

"Thanks for noticing." 

"If the humor of the situation is based upon one of  _us_  having one of  _those_ , and we've already determined that this is not the case, then it's not funny. Therefore, I think you should stop laughing at the idea of someone thinking that we might be a couple." Rachel punctuates her sentence with a firm click of her mouse over the "end call" button. 

"Rach?" Santana stares at the computer in confusion before sending a video call invitation. There's no answer. 

"What the fuck?" 

: _Did you lose internet, again?_

:  _Did you use the key I told you to use to keep the wireless vultures away?_

 Rachel doesn't reply to her text. Five minutes pass. Then ten.

 :  _Rach? Everything okay?_

An incoming Skype call pulls her attention away from the phone in her hand. She frowns when she sees Brittany's name and icon pop up. 

"Hey, were you trying to call me before? I was on with Rachel and - " 

Brittany's arms are crossed over her chest and her cat sits in her lap, glaring menacingly at Santana's image. "You're being stupid." 

The dark-haired girl inhales sharply and her eyes widen in surprise. "What the fuck, Britt? Hi to you, too. Jeez, what crawled up your ass?" 

"You're not being a very good best friend," the blonde accused. She lifts one hand and starts to read from her palm. "You're wrapped up in your own ... " she squints "... words. World!" Brittany pushes her hand in front of the camera for her friend to see. "Little Lord Tubby just gave me a hand bath and now I can't read the rest of the list." 

"What list? What are you talking about? I've always been there for you," Santana says, her voice raising. 

Brittany rolls her eyes. "But you're not for Rachel. She's having a really hard time living alone and there's scary noises sometimes and it's really expensive so she couldn't see that show that had Harry Potter and then the fake Harry Potter with her friends and ... " The blonde stops and frowns at her hand. "And I can't remember the rest of the list but she said something about hating lemons and you laughing at her." 

"Rachel talked to you about me?" the dark-haired girl asks. "When?" 

"While you were texting her about vultures." 

"Wait, while I was waiting for her to answer to me, and maybe thinking that a serial killer broke into her apartment, she was talking to you – about me?" Santana stares at Brittany. 

The blonde nods. The cat continues to glare with contempt and Santana is pretty sure she also sees judgment in his creepy little eyes. "I talk to Rachel a lot. And Mike and Puck and Quinn ... oh! Quinn said to stop emailing her website ads for cell phone family plans and to tell you that she's not buying an iPhone for her butt, no matter what apps you think it might benefit from." 

"I don't care about Quinn." Santana huffs when Brittany’s pout only intensifies. "No, I mean, I care about Quinn but ..." She lets out a frustrated sigh. "Just - why Rachel is mad at me?" 

"Because you're stupid," Brittany states simply.

Santana lets herself fall backward on her bed, her face falling out of the camera's range.  " _This_  is stupid. If she's mad at me, she should talk to me. Not you." Her hand pops into view as she points at the camera. "I didn't  _do_  anything." 

"You're Bruce Willis." 

"Brittany ..." Santana whines. This is not the time for a trip into her friend’s dizzying logic. 

The blonde explains, "You know, in the dead people movie. He probably felt really dumb when he finally figured out what everyone else knew all along." 

She usually loves when Brittany is right. She relishes the look of shock and embarrassment that crosses the face of the person who got the Brittany Stupidity Smack-Down. It's hard to feel good about yourself when you've been outsmarted by the girl who brought in a box of Quaker oatmeal and used it in a report about George W. Bush, "the country's second famous man named George Bush and also the son of the woman on this box, who is famous for discovering oatmeal in the New World." 

When she finally calms down and lets herself think, her mind dissecting every interaction she's had with the smaller girl since graduation and her focus settling on Rachel's visit and the two (only two) arguments they've had since then, Santana feels incredibly stupid. Stupid and, oddly, hopeful?

No, that's probably just the cold pizza she had for breakfast. Fuckin' pepperoni.  


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If there's anything I've figured out, it's where I'm not supposed to be," Santana says softly. "Not Lima and definitely not Louisville."

Santana's plan has been ready since before she packed up that giant pennant and practically threw it at Carly from her dad's car window as she drove away from Louie U. Good riddance. 

Forms filed? Check. Essays submitted? Check. Ritual sacrifice of the cheer uniform? Not literally, but figuratively? Check! 

Burning the midnight oil and ridiculous amounts of organization meant she was on her way. Nothing holding her back. No strings ... well one little string. One very big little string that, really, her whole plan kind of hinges on. 

One string that requires a pack of light purple post-its, an orange gel ink pen and one conspirator who swears on his dog's life to be able to give Santana the time to do what needs to be done. 

Luckily, she has the foresight to use her train ride to do half of the work. 

She stares at the door in front of her and inhales deeply, trying to remember why she thought this would be a good idea. 

Oh yeah. Bruce fuckin' Willis and his flashbacks of doom. 

She can't really blame him really. If anything, she kind of owes him more of a "thank you" than a "fuck you." After she disconnected that video call with Brittany (and that damned judgmental cat), the call during which she was continuously told she was stupid by her supposed-best friend, she involuntarily re-enacted the final scene of the movie. 

The realization she came to was equally, if not more, shocking than the one featured in the film: Rachel likes her.

And not in the shoulder-punching, hair-ruffling, best-friend way. 

Santana recalled every shy smile, adorable giggle and lip-bite. She remembered the way Rachel clung to her arm wherever they went or clasped their hands together when they walked side-by-side. The way that Rachel went out of her way and did little things for Santana … 

…and she remembered Rachel's reaction to  _her_  reaction to being questioned about the nature of their relationship. 

She was maybe, a little bit, sort of, kinda stupid. 

She’s over that, though. 

But Rachel hasn't really come around to talking to her as often as before or sending a bazillion text messages like she used to, so Santana decides that it's time that Rachel gets over it, too. 

Which is what has her staring at a door with post-its in her hand. 

"This is fucking ridiculous," Santana murmurs to herself as she rips the first note from the stack and slaps it against the door. She steps back, looks at it and then frowns, rips it down and slaps it back on the door, this time a little lower. 

She gets about fifteen notes into it before the door opens. 

"What in the world is going on out here?" And suddenly Rachel is standing in front of her, her arms crossed over her chest. The frown on her face is immediately replaced by wide, shocked eyes. "Santana?" 

"Shut the fucking door, Rachel. You're ruining it." When Rachel turns her head to look at her door, the taller girl grabs her shoulders and turns her around. "Also, your fuckin' friend sucks and shouldn't be allowed to own a friggin’ dog. Go inside before I take my toys and go home." 

With a firm push, Rachel, feeling more than a little bewildered, finds herself back inside her apartment, her front door slammed behind her. The sound of wood being smacked resumes. 

"What are you doing here?" Rachel asks through the door. 

"I'm not here. You're, like, dreaming or high or something. Figment of your imagination and all of that crap. Go away," her friend says, every few words punctuated by another slap on the door. 

Rachel rolls her eyes and huffs. "You can't tell me to go away. This is my apartment." 

"I didn't tell you to leave your apartment. If anything, I'm telling you to stay in it. Fuck, can you listen for once? Just ..." Santana answers, stopping to read the note in her hand. She smiles softly and places it in a specific spot on the door. "... just give me a few minutes, okay?"

 "How many?" 

Santana laughs. "You're so impatient, Rachel. And, for the record, you're not supposed to be here." 

It's silent for nearly a full minute. "Speaking of where people are supposed to be," Rachel begins. "Aren't you supposed to be in Lima?" 

"If there's anything I've figured out, it's where I'm not supposed to be," Santana says softly. "Not Lima and definitely not Louisville." 

The frustrated brunette sits on the floor and leans her back against the wooden fixture that stands between her and her friend - between her and some weird surprise she's not sure if she's excited or terrified about. 

"Seriously, Santana," she begins. "What are you doing here? And why didn't you tell me you were coming to visit." She closes her eyes as she listens to the soft sound of Santana's hand hitting her door, the rhythm almost soothing her frayed nerves. 

"It's supposed to be a surprise and I'm not here to visit." 

"You're just going to stick things to my door and leave?" 

Santana laughs again and Rachel frowns. 

"Anyone ever tell you that you're short-sighted?" she teases from her side of the door. Another purple note, another light smack on the door. 

"Never." 

"Guess I know you best, then," Santana offers. 

Rachel pouts, suddenly very glad to have a barrier between them. "I used to think so." 

Santana slaps the door harder. "Cut that shit out. We're best friends for-fricken-ever or some shit, remember?" 

It's quiet for another minute or two. Then Santana knocks. 

The smaller girl scrambles to get up but, with her hand on the doorknob, doesn’t allow herself to throw open the door. She'll show Santana who's impatient. She's going to open the door nice and slow. Maybe she'll get a glass of water first. Or maybe she'll count to one hundred or answer her Daddy's email. Rachel's train of thought is interrupted by another short rap on the door. 

"Hey, you still got that note from when you came to see me at school?" 

Rachel tries to open the door but finds that the handle won't turn. From her side, the taller girl holds it firmly. 

"Nuh uh. I wanna see it. Slip it under." 

Inside the apartment, Rachel's arms drop to her side and then she kicks the door. "Not until you let me open the door. I want to see what you're doing." 

"Don't trust me, huh?" 

"Of course I trust you." 

"Then slip it under the door." Santana waits a beat. "Unless you don't have it anymore." 

Rachel audibly gasps. And it's not a small gasp either. It's a chest-clutching, lung-filling intake of air that can only result in one thing. 

The smaller girl stamps her foot and huffs as she leans forward and uses the peek-hole to glare at her friend. "How dare you suggest that I would throw away something that, quite obviously, has meaning to me! Don't have it anymore?  I kept it in my dorm room through the end of the term and it was one of the first things I unpacked when I moved into this apartment, Santana Lopez. Maybe you would have thrown it away ..." 

Santana calmly knocks on the door, effectively silencing the other girl. 

"Prove it." 

She can hear a shuffling from the other side of the door and the taller girl smiles to herself. Rachel, she knows, never backs down from a challenge. In under a minute, a bright pink note slides into the hallway. 

"Thank you. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

The other girl leans up on her tip-toes to peer out of the peek-hole again. "Okay, you saw it. Give it back." 

"In a minute," Santana replies as she takes out her bright orange pen and scratches it against the paper. 

The door flies open and Rachel is staring at her, her mouth open in shock and her eyes furiously searching the darker eyes in front of her for an explanation. "How could you?" She thrusts her arm forward for the note. "Give it back." 

Santana holds the note over her head. "Not yet." 

Without another word, the smaller girl surges forward and tries to jump up to grab the note from her friend's grasp. She lands on Santana's foot, making her howl in pain. 

"Fuck, Rach!" She hobbles a few steps in a feeble attempt to walk it off. When she sees Rachel reach for the paper, she shoves it down her shirt. "You gonna come and get it?" 

Wide brown eyes dart from the front of Santana's shirt to the smirk the girl is wearing. Rachel's face practically glows red. 

The taller girl steps closer, holding her hand over the neck of her shirt just in case Rachel gets any ideas. Not that it would be a bad thing but, Santana's kind of hoping to get to the point and she knows that groping in the hallway usually comes after the grand gesture and not before. 

Not that she wouldn't make an exception. 

"Calm down, okay?" Santana's voice is unusually soft as she gazes into her best friend's eyes. "It's just that I had a plan and you being here kind of screws that all up. So, I have to improvise and you have to let me. Can you do that?" 

"No." 

"No?" 

"I want to but you have to understand how this all seems to me," Rachel explains. "You've barely talked to me for the past two weeks, you show up in my building and vandalize my door and then you ruin our note." The smaller girl's forehead wrinkles as her brows push together. "If you don't want to be my best friend anymore, then you should just tell me instead of playing games." 

Santana narrows her eyes and tilts her head as she listens to her friend talk. She could argue that Rachel is the one who's suddenly too busy to Skype and who started inconsistently answering texts. She could tell Rachel that she's not vandalizing anything and, if she'd look at her door, she'd realize that. She could even show her the note that's firmly wedged into her bra to prove that she didn't ruin anything. 

But she doesn't. 

"Maybe I don't." 

The shock on Rachel's face is almost heartbreaking. "You don't?" she asks, her voice small.  Santana can't remember a time when Rachel's voice wasn't larger than life. 

"I was kinda hoping that transferring schools and moving to the city would give me a little leverage to upgrade," Santana says as she digs the note out of her shirt, hands it to Rachel and walks past her.  

She steps into Rachel's apartment, raises one eyebrow at the girl who is staring dumbly at her and then shuts the door. 

It takes a full minute for Rachel to realize that she's in the hallway outside of her apartment. And that Santana is inside. She's not clear on how that happened and her brain is having a hard time parsing it out.  She lifts her hand to knock on the door and demand entrance to her own apartment when she sees "ridiculously short" and squints to read the post-it that caught her eye. 

She reads it three times before she realizes it isn't a joke about her height but a ... compliment? 

_Ridiculously short skirts + Rachel's legs = distraction (of ~~a good~~  the best kind)_ 

In Santana's world, that's a compliment, Rachel supposes. She takes a step back and lets her eyes scan over the notes. 

_Rachel + stardom = no shit, Sherlock (headliner!)_

_Rachel + fake ID = awesomely unexpected badassness_

_Rachel + jokes = adorably lame_  

These were compliments, right? 

_Cell phone - Rachel's texts = :(_  

The little brunette smiles and then her eyes widen. 

_Rachel's giggles = music_

She touches the paper on her door and then lightly knocks. "Santana, what is all of this?" 

The taller girl leans back from where she stood peeking at her friend through the hole in the door and shrugs even though the other girl can't see her. "Math," she says as she turns and rests her back against the door. "And for the record, I suck at math. Brittany kind of helped me because, as you know, I wasn't really putting the formula together." 

It's silent on the other side of the door, so Santana clarifies. "Third row, fourth one in."

Rachel finds it and traces over the note with her finger. 

_Rachel + Santana = not funny or ridiculous_  

"San," the smaller girl starts, "I don't get it." 

Santana shrugs again. "It's math. I showed all the work and I'm pretty sure I came up with the right answer. I guess you'll have to let me know. And don't let the fact that I can lock you out of your apartment color your answer." 

Rachel's breath hitches when she sees a note that doesn't start with her own name. 

_Santana - Rachel = :(_  

"So, what do you think? Does it add up right?" Santana asks from her side of the door. "My hand is not on the deadbolt right now, in case you were wondering." 

"I think that, uhm," Rachel clears her throat, "I think that the work you've shown is really good, but I don't see your final answer." 

There's a laugh from the other side of the door. "You're holding it, Gidget." 

Rachel looks down at the very familiar bright pink note she's holding. As she reads it, her free hand comes to rest on her chest. 

_S + R = ~~BFFFs~~  <3_ 

She takes another look at her front door and sees an empty spot right in the middle of the rows of notes. With a little slap, she presses the note against the door and steps back to assess it. 

"I think," she begins softly, "I'm pretty sure it checks out but if you want to maybe go over it with me, I think we should make sure, don't you?" 

No answer. 

"Santana?" Rachel knocks on her door and then frowns at the fact that she's knocking on her own door. She tries the handle and the doorknob easily turns.

Santana is sitting cross-legged on the couch (really, it's just a cheap futon but Rachel likes to pretend it's a real couch because grown-ups who have their own apartments in New York should have couches). Her shoes are off and she's facing the door. "I was going to say 'come in' but then I thought that maybe I've been presumptuous enough for one day." 

Rachel sits primly at the far end of her futon. "I don't know what to say." 

The darker-haired girl laughs. "Had I known that's all it took ..." 

Rachel turns her head and gives her the funniest looking frown she's ever seen. It's like she's trying to frown but she can't because she's already smiling. 

"Look, I don't do this stuff well. The last time I tried something like this," Santana stops. "Okay, I’ve never actually tried something like  _this_ , but you know, the whole telling people how I feel stuff? The last time I did that ended up hurting a lot and, it wasn't like a bandaid. It hurt like a bitch right away and it kept right on hurting." 

"Brittany." 

"Yeah," she confirms. "I told her I would wait for her. I told her I wanted to be with her forever and that a year apart didn't have to mean anything because I'd wait." Santana presses her lips into a thin line. "And she pretty much said not to bother because a year is a long time to waste." 

"I'm sorry, I didn't know." Rachel looks down at her hands as she twists her fingers together. 

"S'not important now." Santana shrugs. "Because I got over it. It stopped hurting ...," she begins as she scoots closer to Rachel and untangles the girl's fingers and winds them up with her own, "... something better kind of distracted me." 

"Let me guess," the smaller girl says, her voice lighter than before, "ridiculously short skirts?" 

Santana laughs and squeezes the other girl's hand. "They sure don't hurt but, no," she says. "You rarely stood up during our Skype talks and you never once sent me that kind of photo message. For future reference, photos like that are not only accepted but highly encouraged." 

She lets out a nervous little chuckle. "So, am I way off base or ..." 

"You know you're not," Rachel answers. "You wouldn't have done all of this if you weren't certain." 

"Maybe." 

"Definitely." 

"Possibly." 

"Absolutely." 

"Rachel ..." 

"... Santana ..." 

"I  _do_  still want to be your best friend," the darker-haired girl admits. She lets go of Rachel’s hand and cups her cheek, forcing the other girl to make eye contact with her. "I just don't want to  _only_  be your best friend, okay?" 

Rachel bites her bottom lip as she nods firmly. “It’s definitely okay,” she says nervously, her eyes flicking down to Santana’s mouth. 

The girl’s lips are curved up into a soft smile (not the smirk she’d almost expected) and when she meets her eyes, she can’t help but melt a little at Santana’s gentle gaze and the way that her thumb is caressing her cheek. 

Santana’s pretty sure it was Rachel who leaned in first. Though, later, Rachel will insist it was Santana and that she wouldn’t have deigned to initiate a kiss because she’d already ruined the door surprise (kind of). There was no way she was going to mess up any of Santana’s other plans. 

Not that she expected her to have planned their first kiss. 

Expecting and hoping are different. 

And maybe it wasn’t how Santana planned it (in the hallway, in front of a door-full of notes), but maybe this was better. Her hand on Rachel’s cheek, the smaller girl’s hand covering it, as they paused only briefly before pressing their lips together. Two pairs of brown eyes closing at the last possible moment: one looking for signs of hesitation and the other wary to close in case, when she opened them, it turned out only to be a dream. 

"I can't believe this is really happening or that you're really here," Rachel whispers, the words soft puffs of air against the darker-haired girl’s mouth. 

"Yeah, about that," Santana begins, pulling away only as far as she has to in order to be able to look into Rachel’s eyes, "I don't want to be a walking U-Haul joke or anything but I was considering moving in. And by considering, I mean that I’m planning on in. Maybe even counting on it." 

"What - here?" 

"No, your hallway. It's spacious and, you know, great view of the elevator," the darker-haired girl says, pointing behind Rachel toward the hallway. "Yes, here. Not only would I have a place to live, but you'd be able to see How to Suck in Business as many times as you want and still be able to afford to eat."  There's a twinkle in her dark eyes as she says, "Consider me the bearer of a shit-ton of lemonade." 

"Santana, this place is full of NYADA students. You're going to get sick of all the noise and, really, it's kind of a constant musical around here," Rachel says, "Wouldn't you rather be in a place where you can start your future with people you want to be surrounded by?" 

"I plan to," Santana replies, smiling as she looks into Rachel's eyes. "Here. With you." 


End file.
